Page 85 of From Fling to Ring

Rake buzzes me up to his apartment after I practically break the intercom button out front. I figure the police will probably arrive any minute because I stormed right past the concierge and to the elevator like a crazy man without signing in. If there’s nothing Rake’s concierge hates more, it’s being dissed by one of his hockey playing friends.

As the elevator door closes, I holler back at him. “Don’t be offended, buddy. This is an emergency.”

Once in Petal and Rake’s apartment, I pace the length of their living room, looking out the window but really, seeing nothing.

“Can I get you anything, Tyler?” Petal asks sweetly.

“Yeah. Something strong. No ice.”

Rake comes out of the shower, still wet with a towel around his waist. “Jesus, dude. You’re a mess.”

“Yeah? And I wonder why,” I snap, throwing back half of my scotch. It burns going down and is even worse on my empty stomach. But I’m glad for the pain. It reminds me I’m pissed off.

Rake takes a seat on the sofa, still holding his towel closed, and Petal nervously looks between the two of us.

“Where the fuck is Lucy?”

Rake looks at his wife. “You made me swear not to say anything, baby. So now you can answer the man’s questions.”

Petal takes a deep breath. “Lucy lost her job and cancelled the book contract. She decided the book was too negative and bailed on it. I think she was just worn out, so she left… for Paris.”

I jump to my feet. “What? Paris, France? What’s in fucking Paris, France?”

Petal frowns at my outburst and holds her hands up in warning.

Yeah, yeah.

“Well, she’s been working on her French, and one of our high school friends married a guy over there and needs a nanny.”

“WHAT THE FUCK?”

She left the goddamn country?

And she lost her job? My God, she lost her job and I didn’t even know. She must be devastated.

I sure as fuck am.

I pull out my phone to send her a text.

“That won’t work, Ty. She’s only on WhatsApp now. And she got a new number. A French phone number.”

For fuck’s sake.

I take a deep breath and force myself to calm even though I’m seconds from barfing up the scotch I drank too fast and didn’t need anyway. “When is she coming back? Like in a couple weeks? A month?” I ask quietly, slowly acknowledging that a sublet apartment means a longer trip than a shorter one.

She and Rake look at each other and I swear to God, if they don’t start being more forthcoming with information, I’m going to fucking explode.

“TELL ME,” I holler.

Petal purses her lips at my outburst. “If she gets the nanny gig, she can stay ninety days on a tourist visa. If all goes well, she can apply for something else and possibly stay longer.”

Why has my life become haunted by ninety-day segments?

“Jesus Christ,” I mumble, looking out their window at the Bay Bridge and the bumper-to-bumper traffic clogging it. I wonder if all those people are fuck-ups like I am.

I plop down in a chair with my head in my hands.

“You know, Tyler,” Petal says, “this is a problem of your own making.”

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